


Chapter 9: Things We’ll Never Have

by dc_comic_girl



Series: The Story of Mickey Milkovich [9]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gallavich, M/M, POV Mickey, POV Mickey Milkovich, Protective Mickey Milkovich
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 14:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20009569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dc_comic_girl/pseuds/dc_comic_girl
Summary: Mickey finally gets out of juvie. Somethings have stayed the same, but one thing has not.





	Chapter 9: Things We’ll Never Have

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys (if there's anyone still out there), 
> 
> I'm really sorry I kept this story hanging for so long. It was due to personal reasons that I won't bore you with here. Anyway, I debated orphaning the series, but some comments from people still reading made me plug through and write some more. I'm hoping to get the next chapter out soon (it's already started), but this chapter is super long, so please enjoy. I'm sure there are grammatical errors, but it's 1:45 a.m. my time as I'm writing this, so I don't trust my brain to catch them all.
> 
> Oh, and weird caveat: I'm Canadian, so my spelling is too. I know that I switch back and forth between "centre" and "center", but that's because it's spelled 'centre" in Canada, but at one point I use the name of a real detention centre in Chicago, which is spelt "center". Sorry if it looks weird.
> 
> For anyone still following, thank you. As stated previously, there are opinions expressed by these characters that I do not share. No matter who you are you are absolutely worthy of love.
> 
> Characters and show dialog not mine. Enjoy!

Mickey had gotten the letter around his sixth week in juvie. The very idea of someone writing him had caused him a great deal of fucking panic. His brothers had told him a lot about juvie, but they had never told him about getting letters.

Probably because no one had ever written them.

When the letter first arrived under his door, the first thought that occurred to him was that something had happened to Mandy. Why else would anyone be writing him? Seeing Gallagher’s name in the top left corner only supported this theory – his brothers didn’t have brain cells enough between them to think to let Mickey know that Mandy was hurt or in trouble, so of course Gallagher would be the fuckin’ correspondent.

However, once Mickey had ripped the letter open and read it, he realized pretty quickly that nothing was wrong.

Except, that wasn’t exactly true, was it?

Sure, nothing was wrong with Mandy (save Gallagher saying she was “sad” or some shit, which Mickey chalked up to her being a teenage fucking girl), but something was sure as fuck wrong with Mickey.

The letter made him smile. The letter made him laugh. He could see how much time and thought Ian had put into writing about things that would cheer Mickey up (particularly the descent of Karen Jackson), and it made his heart pound against his lungs, making it hard to breath.

And deep, in the pit of his stomach, he felt utter disgust with himself.

He shouldn’t care about Gallagher taking the time to write him, and Gallagher shouldn’t take the fuckin’ time to write him. They weren’t _gay_. They weren’t some fruity fags who wrote love notes and talked about their days.

He crumpled the pages into a ball. He wanted to throw it in the toilet in his room. He wanted to blaze them up with the contraband lighter he had hidden away in his pillowcase. He wanted to rip them to shreds and be done with the damn thing. But he couldn’t. So he threw the ball of loose leaf onto his bunk.

It should bother him that Ian knew so much about what would make him happy, what would set his mind at ease, what he wanted to hear from home. It should bother him that Ian wanted to come visit him and hold his hand to the glass and tell him he missed him. It should bother him that Ian fuckin’ Gallagher wrote him a letter in juvie.

It should bother him.

And it didn’t.

And that bothered him.

* * *

Mickey was getting out early, even with his stabbing indiscretion. Juvie was ill-equipped to hold all the young and budding criminals that Chicago had to offer, and, with all the overcrowding, Juvenile Temporary Detention Center had become less of a centre for detention and more of a revolving door.

The guards allowed Mickey a phone call, but he felt it was pretty devoid of point. Last time someone had made the long journey to pick a Milkovich up from juvie, she had gone missing and, as far as he knew, hadn’t been heard from since.

All the same, he left a brief message on Mandy’s phone, telling her the date and time he was being released. He included at the end of the message that she shouldn’t bother wasting her money on bus fair, and that he was perfectly fuckin’ capable of finding his way home on his own.

At about noon, a guard came to Mickey’s cell to collect him and told him to grab any of his possessions. Mickey scowled at the slight sarcasm in the guard’s voice. While his cellmate had lined the wall of the top bunk with photos and letters from home, Mickey’s wall was about as bare as it had been when he had moved in.

Mickey reached into his pillowcase and pulled out his lighter and a squished, ball of papers. He turned back to the guard, held up the contraband lighter, and winked. It was the guard’s turn to scowl.

The guard led him to the front desk where he was given his release papers, the clothes he was wearing when he was brought in, and the pack of smokes and cell phone that had been in his pocket upon his arrest wrapped in a brown paper bag. He shoved his lighter and the paper ball into the bag and changed into his sweatpants and wife beater. There was a nearly instantaneous feeling of relief as he slipped back into his civis, but he refused to show it on his face. Don’t give them the satisfaction. Never let them see you sweat.

Mickey walked into the bright sunlight and down the ramp from the detention centre. To his mild surprise, his younger sister was standing across the parking lot waiting for him. To his absolute fuckin’ shock, Ian Gallagher was standing next to her.

“What the hell’s he doin’ here?” Mickey asked, as soon as the pair was in ear shot. His grip tightened on the paper bag, protectively.

“Hey Mick,” Ian said brightly, seeming not the least put off by Mickey’s lack of enthusiasm to see him.

“He thought I needed protection,” Mandy answered, barely holding back a smile at the absurdity of the concept.

“Oh, yeah?” Mickey smiled himself, beckoning Mandy forward. “Trust me, you may think you know my sister. You don’t know my sister ‘til you’ve fought my sister.”

Mandy squeezed him tight, her arm around the back of his neck, and Mickey was filled with the same feelings of relief and comfort that his sweatpants had brought him only moments earlier. The familiar. Home.

“She’s protecting your ass,” Mickey added, looking at Ian, trying to elicit a reaction. Ian just smiled.

The truth was, it didn’t really matter to Mickey who protected whom. They were both safe. They were both here. Terry hadn’t killed either of them. Lip hadn’t gotten them arrested. He could finally fucking breath again.

“You smell like BBQ sauce,” Mandy mumbled, scrunching up her nose.

Mickey, shaken from his moment of serenity, immediately pinched her chest and twisted.

“Like what?”

“Ow! Ow! What did dad tell you?!” Mandy yelled. She grabbed the top of Mickey’s head and dug her nails into his sculp. Deep.

“Ow!” Mickey yelled back, refusing to concede. “Fuck the police?”

“No titty-twisters now that I’m a C-cup!”

Mandy pushed Mickey’s head away hard, and he let go, stumbling back.

“C-cup? Bitch, you wish,” Mickey mumbled, rubbing his head. He caught Gallagher smirking out of the corner of his eye, and felt colour rise in his cheeks. Mandy may be tough, but she was still a girl. Mickey felt a sudden need to prove himself.

“Hey!” Mickey yelled, turning back to the guards. “Fuck you, fuck you, and especially fuck you,” he yelled, flipping the detention centre staff off.

Mickey suddenly felt a hand on his left shoulder, pulling him away from the parking lot and down an ally.

“Alright, alright, Jesus. Let’s get out of here before they throw you back in,” Ian said brightly, putting his arms across Mandy and Mickey’s shoulders. Mandy leaned into it, wrapping her own arm around Ian’s waist, but Mickey shrugged him off. That was all he fuckin’ needed added to his juvie rep.

* * *

The trio took the L and sat in fairly comfortable silence. Mandy and Ian sat on one side of the train, while Mickey sat across the aisle, observing them. While the two barely talked, they were just as touchy-feely as he remembered them. Mandy would bump her shoulder into Ian’s and he would bump her back, harder, but not hard enough to actually hurt. She’d bump him back and Ian would pretend to fall over from the blow.

To the casual observer, the two seemed like a perfectly adorable pair of young lovers. Mickey wondered, staring at them, if Mandy was still in love with Ian Gallagher. He wondered if she still dreamed he would save her from her fucked up life – marry her and buy her a picket fence house and have kids with her.

The image of Mandy and Ian growing old together, bumping each other’s shoulders and giggling for the rest of their lives, made Mickey’s stomach tighten a little, and he felt himself digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands.

Once the image was in his head, it was hard to shake. Mandy and Ian. Ian and Mandy. A couple little brats running around with big green eyes and freckles. Terry would probably be tickled fucking pink with that perfectly normal and okay union. Mickey knew he should be happy too, or at least relieved. As long as Mandy and Ian were “dating”, Ian was safe from Terry and Mandy was safe from…unwanted attention. Mickey should be relieved that they were still playing at this, and if it went on for the rest of their lives, all the better. The two people he wanted most to protect would be safe. As he watched his sister rest her head on Ian’s shoulder, though, he couldn’t help but feel…bitterness.

Ian looked much different than he had when Mickey last saw him nearly six months ago. He was at least four inches taller, and his shoulders had started to fill out. He had cut his mop of red hair short, and his freckles, which used to cover every inch of his face, had faded to a dull splattering.

His eyes, though. His eyes were as green as ever. In that moment, as if on cue, Ian’s eyes snapped up to meet Mickey’s. Realizing Mickey had been watching him, Ian smiled, and Mickey quickly looked away.

The train’s audio system announced the next stop, and Mandy stood up, pulling Ian with her. Mickey stood up too, grabbing his brown paper bag.

“You wanna come over?” Mandy asked, once they were off the platform “I have some whippets.”

“Nah, I got work. Linda’s already gonna be pissed I took the morning off,” Ian answered, with an apologetic shrug.

Mandy’s face fell slightly. “What about later?”

Ian’s eyes darted to Mickey so quickly Mickey had to wonder if he imagined it.

“I have to work later. But how about tomorrow night we get stoned and go to the movies?”

“Fine,” Mandy sighed and smiled, giving Ian’s shoulder one last shove. He let out an exaggerated “oof” and rubbed his bicep.

She turned to go and looked over at Mickey. “You comin’, or what?”

Mickey hesitated for a second and thought he saw Ian’s eyes dart to him one last time before turning and walking in the direction of the Kash and Grab.

“I think, I’m gonna go grab some food first,” he answered, watching Ian walk away out of the corner of his eye.

Mandy scowled at him.

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“You _just_ got out of juvie, dumbass.”

“Yeah, so I think I earned a fuckin’ Slim Jim. Get off my fuckin’ ass,” Mickey scowled back.

“Fine. Whatever,” Mandy replied, rolling her eyes in exasperation and turning to walk away.

Mickey watched her walk until she turned the corner, and then jogged to catch up with Ian.

Ian turned to look at him, beaming. Mickey felt his anxiety level rising and wondered if he made a mistake. He suddenly had a vision of Ian dragging him into a side street and kissing him.

The thought made his palms sweat in a not entirely unpleasant way.

“Glad to be out?” Ian asked.

“That’s a dumb fuckin’ question,” Mickey mumbled, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.

“Was it awful?” Ian asked, lowering his voice, as if they were talking about some clandestine hell Mickey had just escaped from.

“Mostly just boring,” Mickey answered, exhaling smoke through his nose.

The boys walked in silence for a few minutes before Ian spoke again.

“I found out why she’s sad.”

“Why who’s sad?” Mickey asked, wondering if Ian was speaking in some kind of weird military code.

Ian gave him a disapproving look.

“ _Mandy._ ”

Suddenly Mickey remembered the passage from Ian’s letter that he had brushed off. “Oh. Right.”

Ian continued to stare at him, expectantly, waiting for Mickey to care about his sister’s mood swings.

“So? Why’s she fuckin’ sad?” Mickey asked, losing his patience.

Ian stopped, outside the Kash and Grab, and leaned against the window. He took a deep breath and looked up solemnly.

“Your mom died, Mick.”

“Oh,” Mickey said, nodding slightly. “Okay.”

Ian continued to stare at him, and Mickey stared back, slightly uncomfortable. If he was entirely honest with himself, it’s not like the idea that Lydia had overdosed or gypped the wrong dealer and got her throat slit hadn’t crossed his mind. She’d been missing for nearly a year, and she had to have run out of money at some point. Since she hadn’t come back to Terry looking for more money or drugs, dead had seemed like a pretty probable explanation.

Still, Ian watched him like he expected Mickey to break into tears at any moment. Mickey was reminded of Ian’s red rimmed eyes and blotchy face the day _his_ mother had shown up. He wondered if Ian would cry if Monica died.

Since Mickey wasn’t emoting, Ian pressed on.

“She was found in some crack house and the cops called Terry in to identify her. He wouldn’t go so Mandy went…alone. I would have gone with her, but she never told me until, like, last month,”

Mickey took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked it away. Terry’s a piece of shit. Can’t even be bothered to go identify his own wife’s corpse.

“Anyway,” Ian continued, “Mandy’s seemed really different since. Not, like, crying or anything, just…quieter…”

Mickey nodded. He wasn’t sure how to respond to this whole story – what Ian wanted him to do.

Lydia’s dead. Okay. People die all the time. At least now it’s one person less to be around making their lives miserable. And if Mandy’s torn up about that, it fuckin’ sucks, but she’ll live. This isn’t the kinda thing Mickey could protect her from. Fuck, it wasn’t even the kinda thing he should _need_ to protect her from.

“Do you want to talk about it later?” Ian asked in a quiet voice, bending his head to be in Mickey’s eye line. “After I get off work.”

Mickey snapped back out of his thoughts, and met Ian’s eyes.

“Thought you told Mandy you were working late,” he replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Well…” Ian said, smirking playfully. “I do plan on doing a job…”

Mickey felt a pressure inside the front of his pants, and took a step backwards, away from the boy.

“Ball diamond. 9 p.m.,” Mickey said, before turning on his heel to walk home.

* * *

Mickey leaned against the bleachers, waiting for Ian to show up. The sun had gone down nearly an hour ago, but the heat remained. It was the kind of heat that felt sticky and thick – threatening rain, but never delivering. It was already 10:15, and Mickey was getting pretty fuckin’ sick of waiting.

He felt stupid and eager sitting around waiting for Gallagher to grace him with his fuckin’ presence. _What else would you be doing?_ he asked himself, continually. _This is as good a place to sit around and smoke as any._ So he waited.

And while he waited, he thought about Mandy, and he thought about Lydia. Lydia had never wanted Mandy. Hell, Mickey was pretty sure Lydia had never wanted any of them, but she was particularly hard on Mandy. It had never stopped Mandy from trying, though. Trying to get her mother’s attention – her affection. Mandy had always tried to be happy – to throw parties and have friends and be _normal_. And Lydia had always tried to beat it out of her.

Mandy was better off with Lydia gone. Mickey knew that for a fuckin’ fact.

The sound of sneakers hitting dirt caused Mickey to turn around.

“You’re fuckin’ late,” he yelled, throwing his cigarette on the ground and putting it out with his heel.

“Yeah, yeah, Linda made me stay late. Since Kash is gone, and she’s pregnant, I gotta run the store pretty much alone.”

Mickey raised an eyebrow, “Towelhead’s gone?”

Ian caught up to him, out of breath. Mickey wondered if he had run the whole way here, and he was suddenly relieved he hadn’t given up and gone home.

“Yeah, he ran off with some guy when Linda got pregnant,” Ian smirked.

_Of fuckin’ course he did. You sure can pick ‘em Gallagher._

“But at least Linda has increased my pay, so I can take some courses,” Ian continued. Mickey turned and started walking towards the dugout. He wanted to get this show on the goddamn road and talking about Ian’s molester and his bitchy wife wasn’t exactly setting the mood.

“Hot as balls, tonight,” Mickey commented, trying to change the topic.

“So I’m taking Geometry, Algebra II, Trigonometry, and Chemistry,” Ian continued, in no apparent rush to end the small talk.

_Fine, Gallagher, you wanna be a fuckin’ girl about it, let’s talk about your fuckin’ day._

“Durin’ the summer?” Mickey asked.

“Well, I’m tryna get into West Point,” Ian responded.

Ah, West Point. Ian’s dream of grandeur. For reasons Mickey couldn’t even begin to understand, Ian seemed to hear the call to go off and die for his fuckin’ country. A country that didn’t give two shits about him or anyone else below the poverty line. A country that would probably burn him at the stake if they knew the ways in which he was about to desecrate the pitch of their national pastime.

It wasn’t a plan that gave Mickey so much concern, even with his unnatural and disgusting need to protect Ian Gallagher. He was pretty sure Lip wouldn’t let Ian enlist, and he was _very_ sure their older sister wouldn’t. This was a self solving problem.

Mickey let out a dry laugh. “You want the army to give you a fuckin’ gun, all you gotta do is enlist. The recruitment station’s, like, two blocks that way,” he pointed.

“But I wanna be an officer,” Ian said, patiently, like he needed Mickey to understand how important this was.

“You wanna be an officer, huh?” Mickey asked, pulling a beer from his backpack. “Don’t officers get shot first?”

Ian sighed, smiled, and looked away.

Mickey pulled out his pocketknife and flipped it open. “Here. Shot gun.”

He drove the blade into the bottom of the can. He opened the tab so the pressure in the can released, held the hole up to his lips, and let the beer, long warmed by the August heat, run down his throat.

He swallowed a few times before signalling for Gallagher to come closer. Ian inched closer, and Mickey transferred the can from his own lips to Ian’s. He held his hand on the can for a second, even after Ian had taken hold of it. He let go and watched Ian shot gun the beer. He watched his throat move up and down as he swallowed, watched him tilt his head back slightly, watched his lips pressed tight against the aluminum.

He wondered what they tasted like.

He sniffed and looked away, fighting the urge to drive his pocketknife into his own thigh. This was just fuckin’ sex. Who gave a shit what Gallagher’s lips tasted like?

Ian choked on the last of the beer, and Mickey couldn’t help but laugh as he leaned forward, coughing.

Ian righted himself and smiled.

“So, you make a lot of friends on the inside?”

Mickey belched. That was enough. He had done his time with the small talk. Time to move on.

“You wanna chitchat more or you wanna get on me?” Mickey asked looking Ian straight in the eyes.

Ian stared at him a second, smiled, and shrugged, before unbuckling his pants. Mickey grinned and did the same. He turned around, facing the chain fence of the dugout.

Feeling Ian inside him made Mickey forget about the hour and a half wait in the summer heat, and about the six months prior to that.

While Mickey had been in juvie, it had been what he thought about to get off. Ian…him…together in the back of that shitty store next to the cans of pop and jugs of milk. It wasn’t the optimal place to fuck, but between that and the time Terry nearly caught them in Mickey’s bed…well, he’d take the jugs of milk.

This place was different though – secluded, private. He could let out several moans, and he heard Ian let out several of his own, which only made Mickey harder.

This place didn’t belong to Terry and it didn’t belong to Kash. This place didn’t belong to anyone. _Except_ , Mickey thought, _now it kinda belongs to us._

He let out a final moan and saw the sprinklers come on. The mist coming off them reached all the way into the dugout and was refreshing.

Mickey groaned, and pulled up his pants.

“Always wanted to do that here!” he yelled. He felt filled with reckless abandon. _And why fuckin’ not? No one can touch us here. This place belongs to the two of us._ Mickey felt kinda drunk, which was stupid, since he had only had half of one warm beer. He laughed, out of breath.

“Get back at that little league commissioner who kicked me off my baseball team for pissin’ on first base.”

Mickey turned away from the pitch, rubbing his nose in embarrassment. He had never told anyone that story and revealing it post-sex felt strangely personal.

“I remember,” Ian said, with his own laugh, walking towards the doorway of the dugout.

Mickey looked back up with a start.

“You heard about that?”

Ian grabbed the top of the doorway. “I was playing second,” he smiled before proceeding to pull himself up.

Mickey watched him, trying to hide his appreciation for Ian’s ability to immediately go into strength training after that kinda work out. A sharp memory hit him suddenly of a freckly little boy with big green eyes, throwing a ball to him from second base…

“Fuckin’ tough guy, huh?” Mickey asked, opening another beer. Ian dropped down easily, smiling at Mickey. Mickey walked over to the doorway and pulled himself up. He willed himself to do one more pullup than Ian did. Just ‘cause he wanted Ian’s dick up his ass didn’t mean he didn’t want it well known who could kick _whose_ fuckin’ ass.

He checked on the last pullup to see if Ian was watching him. He was, simultaneously flipping Mickey’s pocketknife open and closed absentmindedly. Mickey dropped and Ian took a sip of the beer.

“Not much to do in the joint but work out,” Mickey said with a shrug, walking over to where Ian was leaning.

“You could read,” Ian suggested, and for a chilling moment Mickey heard Lip in his voice.

“Fuck off,” Mickey mumbled, sticking a cigarette between his teeth.

“I’m fucked for life, anyway, man,” he added, pulling out his lighter and lighting up.

Ian looked like he was gonna say something to this but changed his mind.

“Wanna sneak into the Sox game tomorrow?” he asked, trying to hide the hope from his voice.

Mickey shook his head and pulled the cigarette from his mouth.

“Nah, man. I gotta get me a job,” he said, with all the enthusiasm of someone about to have a tooth pulled with no anesthetic. “If I don’t get one in two weeks, my probation skanks gonna get it for me, and I’m gonna end up losing a fuckin’ limb at the meat packing plant.”

“Maybe she’ll find you somethin’ better,” Ian suggested. Ever the optimist.

“She ain’t gonna find fuck all. My dad even had to threaten this mook he knows from high school to get me a job tarring roofs.”

Ian reached for the cigarette still in Mickey’s mouth, and Mickey batted him away.

“Maybe you could head down to Malcom X, you know? Take some vocational training,” Ian suggested, fighting a laugh at Mickey’s flailing to get away from his attempt at grabbing the smoke. Mickey relented and passed the dart over.

“Why the fuck are we talkin’ about community college right now?” Mickey asked, losing his patience. Did Ian really not get it? Did he have his own daydreams of little brats running around with red hair and freckles? Didn’t he know there was no white picket fence in their future? In Mickey’s at least…

“Jesus Christ, you wanna spread a blanket out and look for shooting stars, next? Mickey asked, derisively.

Ian laughed, but looked up at the sky all the same. Mickey fixed his eyes on the dirt floor of the dugout and belched. He picked up the beer and took a swig.

“I could talk to Linda,” Ian finally said, after a few seconds of silence.

“I’m sorry, you want me to work in the place I got shot?”

Ian looked him dead in the eye, not a hint of smile or sarcasm on his face.

“Redemption tale,” he responded, quietly.

Mickey hesitated, thinking it over. Towelhead was gone and the bitch was pregnant. Ian was there alone all day, every day, with no one to interrupt them…

“What’d I be doing?” Mickey asked, trying to keep any hope out of his voice.

“Helping,” Ian shrugged.

“I ain’t cleaning up after people.”

“It’s a pretty clean store, Mickey,” Ian chuckled.

Mickey took another drag off his cigarette.

“What about security,” he suggested. “You know, scaring people like me who come in the store tryna steal shit.”

“Stealin’s been down since your shooting,” Ian chuckled again.

“Do whatever you want, man. You brought it up.”

“Alright.”

The boys stood next to each other silently. Mickey took a final chug of beer.

“You ready to go again, or you, uh…need some time, Firecrotch?” Mickey asked, grinning.

Ian’s face split into its own smile, and he grabbed Mickey, spinning him around, before undoing his own pants. Mickey smiled, pulling down his pants. Mickey felt Ian put a hand on his back, pushing him down slightly. He had forgotten how this felt. The familiar. Home.

* * *

The two boys walked in silence from the baseball field. Unconsciously, Mickey realized he had missed the turn to go to his house and seemed to be walking Ian home. The misstep had not gone unnoticed by Ian, however, who practically fuckin’ skipped the rest of the way home.

As they approached his front porch, though, his expression turned sombre.

“What are you gonna do about Mandy?” Ian asked.

The question took Mickey aback.

“The fuck you mean?”

Ian stared at him incredulously. 

“Your mom died,” Ian said slowly, like he was worried Mickey had developed dementia and forgotten their conversation from earlier.

“Yeah, exactly what the fuck am I expected to do about that?”

Ian rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged.

“I don’t know. Help her grieve, maybe?”

“You’re her ‘boyfriend’, _you_ help her grieve,” Mickey snorted, trying to mask his discomfort.

“She wasn’t my mom,” Ian responded softly.

“Yeah? Lucky you.”

They stood in silence - Mickey on the lawn, Ian on the front steps.

“We’re better off,” Mickey said with some finality, willing Ian to drop the topic.

Ian nodded slowly. “Yeah, I bet you are. But funerals aren’t really for the person in the coffin, are they?”

Mickey was tired. The sun was already starting to peak up, and it made the sky slightly less black and more grey, with a pinkish-red hue close to the horizon. He couldn’t have this conversation anymore. How the ever-living _fuck_ was he supposed to know what a funeral was for? He had never been to one. He had never cared about anyone who died. This day had been so goddamn long, and he was tired from sex. He didn’t have time to try and dissect Ian’s weird fortune cookie riddle speak.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Ian finally said, defusing the silence. He opened his door, before turning back around. “I’m glad you’re home.”

Mickey stood on the Gallagher’s lawn a couple minutes longer before turning to walk home.

 _Who the fuck is the funeral for if it’s not for the dead person?_ Mickey thought, absently.

Surely Ian wasn’t implying that suddenly Mandy and Mickey should realize just how amazing Lydia was and repent for not appreciating their mother more while she was alive.

Mickey had to believe that that was not the implication. If anyone understood terrible mothers, it was probably Ian.

He turned to his left and realized he was standing next to a small church house. Behind it stood a small, intimate cemetery.

Absently looking at the tombstones, Mickey realized Lydia was never going to have one of those. He couldn’t imagine Terry would have paid to claim her body, and if he did, he certainly wouldn’t pay to have her buried. He’d have just as soon dumped her in the river.

It bothered Mickey that the thought didn’t upset him more.

And suddenly it clicked - what Ian was trying to say. A funeral is for the people left behind. Not to feel guilty, but to feel loss. A time and place where it’s okay to be sad. To grieve what you lost.

Or maybe what you never got to have.

Mickey pulled his pocketknife out and flipped it open.

* * *

“Get the fuck up,” Mickey hissed, kicking the side of Mandy’s bed.

It was still barely morning, but Mickey figured he should get this over with before he was sobered up from the high of sleeplessness.

Mandy rolled over, looking at him. She wasn’t wearing makeup, making her look much more her age, and Mickey felt a resurgence of fraternal devotion. Without the mask she wore every day as armor, Mandy was far more susceptible.

“The fuck you want, asshat?” Mandy glared, rubbing her eyes of sleep. The resurgence faded.

“Get the fuck up, I have to show you something.”

“Do you know what fuckin’ time-”

“Just get the fuck up, Mandy!” Mickey hissed.

She rolled her eyes but dragged herself out of bed. Mickey waited in the hall, while she dressed, grumbling the whole time.

She exited her room, and held up her hands as if to say, _I’m here. What the fuck’s the emergency?_

Mickey gestured for her to follow him out the door. She rolled her eyes but obliged.

The two walked in silence until they reached the small church and graveyard Mickey had come to barely an hour before. It was lighter now, and the pink sky made the scene almost picturesque – a rare sight, this side of town.

Mickey pulled his sister by the wrist, up to the gate he had broken earlier and into the graveyard. Near the back corner of the small patch of land was a huge oak tree, shading most of the graves.

“Why the fuck are we in a graveyard, you freak?” Mandy asked, annoyed and more than a little uneasy.

She looked at her older brother, raising her eyebrows questioningly, but Mickey just nodded towards the tree slightly.

Mandy walked forward, squinting. There, marked deep into the flesh of the tree, was **Lydia Milkovich.** Under the name were two words: **Wife. Mother.**

Mandy stared at the tree and Mickey stared at Mandy. Finally she turned to look at him.

“Ian told you?” she asked softly, and Mickey could hear a slight break in her voice.

He walked forward to stand next to her, shoving his hands firmly in his pockets and staring at the tree.

“She was a really shitty mother,” he finally said, and his own mouth felt dry. “And we’re never gonna have another one.”

The two of them stood in the graveyard until the sun had come up completely and the pink had faded.

And it wasn’t a funeral.

But it was something.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, I hope you enjoyed. Please comment, I read every one (and, yours may just be the comment providing me with the will to keep writing)!
> 
> Also, feel free to follow me on tumblr @dc-comic-girl for updates when new chapters come out. Plus, I just think it’d be neat to have more people to talk to about Shameless.


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